


A Little Unwell

by liamthebastard



Series: Staying Alive [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Femslash, Genderswap, I was bullied into this, Mental Instability, Post Reichenbach, but not really, kinda a songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamthebastard/pseuds/liamthebastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo knows she's lost it. There is no way hearing your dead flatmate's voice is remotely sane. But frankly, between dodging calls from Mycroft and navigating her limp, she couldn't give less of a damn about her own relative sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you move forward with life when a large part of it just threw herself from a cliff?

Jo wakes up in the morning to her voice. “Honestly, Jo, how can you stand to sleep so much when there’s so much to _do_?” Jo ignores it, buries her face deeper in the blankets. Three years, four psychiatrists and a handful of narcotics couldn’t make her voice go away, and neither could the blankets. The voice continued, softly enough now that she couldn’t hear what words were beign said, just that words were there.

“Why won’t you leave me _alone_ ,” Jo moans as she gets up and drags herself towards the closet. The voice doesn’t answer; she never does. Instead, she starts rambling about the lack of things in the fridge, and why hadn’t Jo gone out to get milk this week, and why was Jo spending so much boring time at the boring surgery with boring people in the boring town. 

Jo gets dressed, pulling on a jumper –“Dull!”- and slacks –“Predictable!”- before leaving for work. The cane helps her down the sidewalk from her cottage to the main road. It was a nice enough home, close to the seashore and far from Sherlock’s grave. Of course, it wasn’t as if Sherlock was actually buried there. They’d never found her body. Something about the currents. 

“Don’t be stupid, Jo, you know it’s because I’m not dead.” The doctor shakes her head surreptitiously as she walks, trying unsuccessfully to silence her voice. “You know I’m not. I may have been heartless, but I wouldn’t go out like that. Such a _mundane_ way to go.”

“Didn’t look mundane to me,” Jo muttered before realizing she’d responded. She mentally shook herself and carried on down the road. The other doctors berated her for overusing her injured leg, but she was convinced if she kept up she’d regain use of it, and with that, her sanity. It didn’t make sense, but they’d both left when Sherlock had died, and if one came back, the other had to follow suit.

She went about her day, dodging calls from Mycroft –how the bastard had gotten her number she didn’t know- and seeing to her patients. Mycroft called again while she was on lunch break, and this time she had no excuse. 

“Just answer, he’ll go on calling until you do,” the voice called in an annoyed voice. Jo glared at nothing in particular but followed the advice.

Why Mycroft was constantly checking up on her she’d never know. Jo had met the man once, for perhaps an hour, at Sherlock’s funeral. The man had been stoic, seemingly unaffected by the concept that his baby sister was dead. Jo had hated him for it, for being so calm and collected while she’d been a wreck. Most of the Yarders had turned up, with the exceptions of Anderson and Donovan. 

“Sherlock would’ve murdered me if I let them come,” Greg had explained as he sat next to Jo. 

Jo had only nodded, not trusting her voice in the slightest. She was doing her best to keep her face smooth and accepting, but just underneath that she was screaming, the same word over and over, the same word she’d screamed when Sherlock had jumped. _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_. 

Greg seemed to hear it; he only patted her shoulder and then left her to her thoughts as some preacher she didn’t know gave a eulogy about a woman who was nothing at all like Sherlock Holmes. 

“This is ridiculous, why did Mycroft hire a priest? He knows I’m atheist.” 

That was the first day she’d heard Sherlock speak to her, and since then Sherlock hadn’t shut up for more than twenty minutes. 

Now she answered her phone, growling out a hello to Sherlock’s arse of an older brother. 

“Afternoon, Jo. How are you?” Mycroft asked, all cool business and professionalism.

“Absolutely brilliant, you twat, now how did you get my number?” Jo replied scathingly. This was her fourth new number in a month, and Mycroft still managed to track it down in time to harangue her. 

“My, my, you’re in fine temper today,” Mycroft tuts, ignoring Jo’s query as he always did. He hung up seconds later. Jo put her mobile down with a sigh and picked up her sandwich. It felt like he only called to ensure she was still living. It ought to be comforting, knowing someone out there cared if she lived or died, but instead it was bloody annoying. 

“I did warn you he was a prat, but when have you ever listened to me,” Sherlock’s voice sounded again. Jo set aside her sandwich, appetite officially lost to the Holmeses. 

Brendon sat down next to her, smiling gently. “All right, Jo?” he said casually. Jo gave a small smile in response. “D’ya think you could take my shift this afternoon? My girlfriend got into town early.” 

Jo acquiesced quickly; she figured she’d owed Brendon one, getting her this job even after their breakup. He’d really been nicer than she deserved, considering. They’d gotten together off and on Before, and once or twice After, but Jo had shut down each time. Brendon understood, or rather tried to understand, what Jo was going through. He was always there for her, whatever she needed. And it seemed now he was quite content with his girlfriend.

“He’s beneath you at any rate,” Sherlock muttered. 

“I owe you one, Johanna, thanks.” Brendon grinned over his shoulder as he went. Jo waved at him, giving a half-hearted smile in return, and once he was gone, binned her sandwich and returned to work.

“ _Jo_ , all that time spent telling me to eat, and you haven’t had a full meal in months,” Sherlock lectured. Jo tried to shake off her voice, tried to ignore it, but as she continued to be badgered, she gave in a bought a candy bar from the vending machine.

“Pop off, Sherlock, I’ve got patients,” Jo mumbled, hoping that she’d listen for once.

“None that I’ve seen,” Sherlock commented, but fell silent for once. 

Jo sighed. Oddly enough, it felt weirder when Sherlock was quietly hovering than when she was actively speaking. Jo could still feel her presence, just on the edge of her mind, silently waiting for Jo to give her attention. It was just as maddening as her chattering, if not more so.

The door swung open, admitting her next patient. 

_Just a few more hours_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special points to anyone who spots the Doctor Who reference.


	2. I'm Headed for a Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opens her eyes to a world very different from the one she left.

Sherlock opened her eyes to a sterile white room, and her brother. She groaned, rolling over and hiding her face in the covers, wishing very much that she hadn’t woken up at all. 

Mycroft tutted, tapping something –that damned umbrella, most likely- against the tiled floor. “It’s time to open your eyes, baby sister,” he prodded, jabbing lightly at Sherlock’s shoulder with the tip of his umbrella.

The dark-haired detective lifted her head just enough to give him a baleful glare. “What am I _doing_ here, Mycroft,” she growled. Her brother gave her one of his benevolent looks; a face she’d hated from birth, as it was always followed by a new reason to detest Mycroft. 

“Oh, Sherlock. You didn’t really think I’d let you gallivant off without someone watching, did you?” Mycroft said. Sherlock groaned, letting her face flop back down onto the pillow. Some people had big brother watching them, and some people had Big Brother watching them. Sherlock was just lucky; she got both. 

“What part of ‘bugger off you twat, leave me alone’, was unclear to you?” Sherlock asked, her voice muffled by the blanket. 

“Sister mine, if you thought _that_ was going to detain me, you’re even more dreadfully dull than I’d feared.” Mycroft was smirking, she could _hear_ it, that dreadful cat-that-ate-the-canary smile that followed her throughout her failings. 

“Out. Now,” Sherlock ordered, having successfully figured out where she was. Sterile, private room, no sharp objects, all furniture bolted to the ground, a door that clearly locked from the outside and what appeared at a glance to be security glass in the lone window, all coupled with Mycroft’s presence added up to only one location.

Her damnable brother had sent her to _rehab_.

“All right, sister, but I had thought you’d want some information about your dear Miss Watson,” Mycroft said airily as he waltzed over to the door. Sherlock was on her feet immediately, ignoring how her legs complained and her body thrummed with exhaustion, and quickly had cut Mycroft off, standing in front of the door with her body as a shield over the doorknob. “Interested now, are we?” Mycroft grinned. 

Sherlock refused to nod as her eyes narrowed, demanding information on Jo. “She, along with those at the Yard and your landlady, believe you to have perished in your fall. Jo, naturally, has taken it the hardest. She was a mess at your funeral, –which was lovely, you’re welcome- though that Lestrade fellow seemed nearly as bad off.”

“Why on Earth would you tell them I was dead?” Sherlock demanded, fury bubbling just beneath her skin. Mycroft gave her another look, the don’t-be-dense-it’s-obvious look. Another rerun from her childhood. 

“Because, Sherlock, you managed to infuriate some rather powerful, albeit unsavory, people.” When Sherlock’s face didn’t change, Mycroft got more specific. “Moriarty. Your _pimp_ ,” he spat the word. When Sherlock opened her mouth to argue the point, Mycroft carried on. “No. You chose a life that would ultimately lead to your death, and once again, I’ve had to swoop in and save you from yourself.”

“Then why bother swooping, if I’m just going to die anyway?” Sherlock shouted back. 

Mycroft pushed her away from the door, opening it and stepping out before turning around. 

“Because whatever else you may become, you are first and foremost my little sister.”

The door closed.

*

Sherlock hadn’t considered this when she’d jumped. She hadn’t considered much at all, really. She’d opened her eyes to Jo’s warm skin lying against her own, and sunlight gently filling the room. At first, it had been lovely, being curled around someone so perfectly beautiful and good. But then it had hit her, in the way her thoughts often did, as a physical blow. 

_I can never keep her._

Johanna “I’m Not Gay” Watson was… well, not gay. She’d wake up horrified and disgusted with them both, and then she would move out, and Sherlock would be alone again. She was as good as alone already. Jo was essentially gone, despite the fact that she currently laid blissfully asleep in Sherlock’s arms. The moment Jo opened her eyes, they would be done. 

That left Sherlock with a few choices. Choice number one: Crawl back to Jim and beg forgiveness. Anticipated result: Get job back, lose any sense of dignity possessed prior, not to mention having to become one of Jim’s… _special girls_. Clearly not a viable option.

Choice number two: Delete Jo and attempt to return to Work per usual. Anticipated result: Difficult to extrapolate, as deletion of anything Jo-related has proved impossible. Possible viability, but highly unlikely to be effective.

Choice number three: Check out. The plan had been in place since her teens, the location already chosen; it was just a matter of a train ride and a step. Anticipated result: Death. And whatever came next. Best option, choice made.

Sherlock had crawled from bed, her decision firm in her mind as she got dressed. Instead of her best clothes, she opted for her second best, knowing that Mycroft would dress her in the nicest for her funeral. Provided the body even washed up on shore. 

She’d taken the train to Joss Bay, making sure to text Jo the location. Sherlock might be ready to leave, but she still wanted the modicum of comfort Jo’s presence provided. 

In the end, the fall hadn’t proven very difficult. The only hard part was Jo –hearing her scream Sherlock’s name as Sherlock fell. Once the detective hit the water, she’d blacked out. The last image, locked permanently into her mind, was Jo rushing towards the cliffs, trying to save someone who couldn’t be saved. Still the hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I hadn't mentioned, the title of this fic and the subsequent chapter titles are from Matchbox 20's Unwell, which is on repeat as I write this.


	3. Tomorrow Might Be Good for Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jo lives with the regret, every day. The struggle between _there was nothing I could've done_ and _it was all my fault_

Jo certainly didn’t feel heroic. But the mother currently wringing her hand would say otherwise. “Thank you so much, I really thought that she was going to do it,” she blathered on while Jo tried to think of a way to politely extricate herself from the woman’s grip. The girl, perhaps seventeen, stood off to the side, glaring intently at Jo through dyed-black fringe and seven feet of eyeliner. 

“Honestly, ma’am, it’s all right.” Jo paused to give the girl another glance before she carried on. “Talk to her more, maybe. See about getting her help.” The mother instantly agreed, tears still rolling down her cheeks from relief and fear as she ran to her daughter and led her down towards the road. 

The doctor sighed, waiting until mother and daughter were out of sight to go to the edge of the cliffs and sit down in the same spot where minutes earlier she’d yanked a girl away from the brink. 

“Why couldn’t I do that for you, Sherlock? I was able to pull her back, no problem, and she weighed a stone more than you, easily. What’s the point in being able to save everyone else when I couldn’t save you?” Jo asked. “Three years of asking and I still don’t have an answer.”

Sherlock’s voice didn’t respond, thankfully. It never did in these moments on the cliff, always waited until Jo was away from the edge to speak. These words were for Jo and Jo alone. Nobody listening, nobody trying to reply, no sick wish fulfilling voice murmuring what she wanted to hear. Just Jo, and the truth. That Sherlock was dead, and Jo hadn’t been able to stop it. 

Sherlock was dead, and it was as good as Jo’s fault.

Dr. Watson, who could save a life and think nothing of it, who could heal wounds and illness, couldn’t save the one life that mattered, and couldn’t heal herself of the wounds that failure left. 

“I should’ve saved you, Sherlock, and I didn’t. But you never told me you needed saving,” Jo said. Her voice lacked any harshness; all the anger had been done away with during the first year. Now there was simply what was and what wasn’t. “You promised me an after, Sherlock. And one day, I’m going to collect.”

Jo pulled herself home, leaning on her cane heavily as she hiked down the cliffs towards her small home. Rather than renting a flat in town, she’d elected to buy one of the old shacks near the foot of the cliffs, just above the beach. It made a decent home, and it always smelled of the sea. 

She busied herself making tea in the tiny kitchen, but nearly lost it when she noticed that she’d poured two mugs instead of one. For a moment she froze, bracing herself against the counter as she lowered her head. Tears clogged her vision, turning the entire kitchen into one blurry mess.

They’d lived together a month, a _month_ , there was absolutely no reason for Jo to still be mourning her after three years. It was madness, it didn’t make sense. To still be bereaving, still hearing her voice, to still expect her to come swooping in like some great bird, was absurd. 

Jo had thought it would get better if she left 221B, but even she knew she hadn’t tried very hard. After the first month of living in a cold, impartial flat, she’d given up and come to Joss Bay. Of course, changing locales had done nothing for Jo, only given her a way to speak with Sherlock without having her own imagination interfere. For even she was able to tell that this voice she constantly heard was not truly Sherlock, not her ghost or soul or any of the words Sherlock would have spoken with a sneer. No, this voice was clearly a fabrication of her own mind, a way of defending herself against the pain. 

It wasn’t doing a very good job. 

“Jo, don’t be so sentimental, it’s only a cup of tea.” Sherlock’s voice sounded distant, as if she were in another room instead of next to Jo like usual. Jo glanced up, trying to figure out why the voice had changed. “Jo, why don’t you rest for a bit? Things will look better in the morning.”

That was… suspicious at best. Jo’s hallucination had never tried to give her _advice_ before. She must really be hard-pressed for sleep if her mind was resorting to this to get her to sleep. Compliantly, Jo drank her tea and hustled to her room. It was barely seven, still light out, but the more Jo thought on it, the more exhausted she felt. 

And… well, if Sherlock was telling you to sleep, you damn well needed the sleep.

With an aching stretch Jo stripped off her work clothes and slid into the comfortable sweat pants she usually wore to bed. She rifled through her drawers until she found her favorite tee. 

“You stole my shirt,” Sherlock commented, her voice coming in clear now. Jo simply nodded, no point in being embarrassed by a hallucination.

“Well, you certainly weren’t using it,” Jo replied. Sherlock’s voice was silent, the sort of silent that used to mean Sherlock was thinking and deducing. 

While the silence continued, Jo pulled the worn shirt on. It was too long for her, but thankfully when Sherlock lounged around the flat she liked her shirts large, so it fit about Jo’s middle and breasts quite well. And if she took a deep breath and focused, she could catch just a hint of Sherlock’s scent. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking, like so much else of her life.

Imagined or not, Jo took comfort in the grey cotton, and buried herself under her blankets. For a moment, just before sleep took her, she allowed herself to remember Sherlock, really _remember_ her. Not as she’d last seen the detective, poised for flight, but as she’d first seen her. Cold and nearly blue, eyes open and vulnerable, and beautiful. So, so beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should feel terribly guilty for everything I put Jo through... but I really don't since Sherlock is doing much, much worse. Which you'll see next chapter.


	4. A Different Side of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is anything but the ideal patient.

Food was placed before her but she did not eat. Tea offered but she did not drink. Questions asked but she did not speak. It went on like this, the staff resorting to intravenous administrations every few days to keep her from starving to death. Still, for all their efforts, she was thin, fragile, and looked as if she were made of glass.

“You can’t keep on like this, Sherlock,” Mycroft lectured once, during one of his monthly visits. She’d been locked up for roughly a year and half by her own reckoning. Eighteen months that Jo thought she was dead. Five hundred and forty-seven days that Jo had been out in the world without Sherlock next to her.

It was ridiculous that Sherlock should feel the loss of her flatmate so acutely. They’d lived together for perhaps thirty days before Sherlock had jumped, and feeling this level of attachment was by no means normal. Yet something about Jo had called to Sherlock from that first evening. By all conventional definitions, Jo was average, but she had shown remarkable intelligence and cleverness on multiple occasions. And most importantly, she didn’t treat Sherlock like she was a freak.

“If you’d let me out of this place, my diet wouldn’t be your problem,” Sherlock retorted, perching on the edge of her mattress. Mycroft shook his head in disappointment, and let out a sigh.

“Jo has moved again,” Mycroft revealed. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow before she could stop herself; Jo had just moved out of 221B a month earlier, where could she possibly be living now? “She moved to Joss Bay,” Mycroft said, answering her thoughts as he often did. 

Sherlock frowned. Jo had moved to the site of the Fall. Surely that wasn’t healthy for the doctor, who’d already shown signs of PTSD in the short time they’d lived together. “Is- she alright?” Sherlock finally asked, not wanting to show her concern. It was too private, too pure for Mycroft to see and judge.

Mycroft was already leaving; even these visits, while regular, were quite short. “No, Sherlock. She’s not.”

*

That month, Sherlock started eating, three meals a day, eight glasses of water, plus two cups of tea. The staff was amazed at this turn around, and took it as a sign of Sherlock’s recovery. When Mycroft next visited, he commended her on her healthier lifestyle. She was still thin, still fragile, but that fragility now was deep in her eyes, and the thinness was no longer dangerous.

“Mycroft… I’d like very much to go home,” Sherlock said. It was as close to begging as she was ever going to get. Her brother frowned. 

“You still refuse to speak during your therapy sessions. Improve on that,” he’d said, and then he’d left. He hadn’t even told her a word about Jo. 

This method of healing continued on for six months. Sherlock would speak during her sessions, eat her food, participate in what was deemed ‘healthy activities’, and was even allowed to play her violin once a day. Mycroft would reward these improvements with longer visits, more news of Jo, and finally, after two years of being stuck in the hospital, he came with good news.

“You check out later tonight,” Mycroft announced. Sherlock’s head flew up from where it was tilted over her violin. The bow clattered to the floor as she gently set the instrument down on her bed. “There will be a car waiting for you, but you aren’t to return to London.” Sherlock opened her mouth to protest. “No. Not a word. You are going to spend some time abroad, doing some work for your country. And you will not contact Jo, Lestrade, or anyone else from your former life.”

“Why not?” Sherlock demanded. If Mycroft was going to let her free, shouldn’t she be free to speak with whom she liked? More importantly, shouldn’t she tell Jo the truth?

“Because, Sherlock, you never _think_. You simply charge into action, with not thought whatsoever for the consequences. You broke Jo, and if you go back, you will only break her further. Remember, you are the one who jumped. You didn’t want attachments, and now you have a life without them. There was a time when you would have thanked me for this,” Mycroft ranted. When he ranted, his voice didn’t get louder, his face didn’t turn red, but his words came faster, fell harsher, and the slightest trace of a French accent fell into his voice. Sherlock knew there was no arguing with him. He wasn’t being Mycroft Holmes, concerned older brother. He was being Mycroft Holmes, might and backbone of the British government. How she hated that. 

He didn’t want her talking to Jo not because he wanted to teach her a lesson. He didn’t want her talking to Jo because there was a very real chance that whatever work he was sending her to do would result in her death. Why force them to suffer Sherlock’s death twice? His act didn’t fool her, and he knew it didn’t. But they both played along, for the sake of their respective consciences. 

Sherlock went to stare out her window. The hospital was located out in the country, outside of Cardiff. She watched as green hills rolled off into the distance, thinking quietly for a moment. “There’s nothing for me out there. Nothing. At all,” Sherlock noted softly, nearly under her breath. 

Mycroft pretended not to hear, allowing Sherlock her private musings. “I brought you some decent clothing. Do put your trousers on,” Mycroft said finally, setting the clothes in question on her desk before leaving the room. Sherlock immediately crossed the floor to look at what Mycroft had brought. 

Purple blouse, black vest, black trousers, and- the coat, somehow freed of the stink of seawater. She smothered a smile. Neither of them was particularly good at expressing familial fondness, but when it came down to it, they knew each other a little too well.

When she slid on the coat and put her hands in the pockets, more out of habit than actual chill, she jumped when something soft greeted her fingertips. With a mix of disbelief and joy she pulled out the blue scarf. Fixing it firmly about her neck, Sherlock left the hospital, climbed into the town car Mycroft had sent, and began reading the case files he’d left her to peruse. 

The Chase was on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my muse was stimulated by the photo released today of the set (okay it was an empty room but do you see how much I care? we're close!!), because two chapters cranked themselves out. Sorry, no reunion yet, but it is coming, I promise!


	5. Out of All the Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jo receives an unexpected visitor with some interesting news.

_Knock._

Jo opened an eye blearily. 

_Knock._

She rolled onto her back, both eyes open.

_Knock._

The doctor stood, stretching and groaning as she pulled on a dressing gown.

_Knock._

“Just a mo,” Jo called, her voice thick with sleep. 

_Knock._

Jo groaned again but hustled to the door, throwing it open. “Good. Lord. What the _hell _are you doing here?” she shouted, yanking her dressing gown tighter around her shoulders.__

__Mycroft swept in, sitting down on Jo’s sofa as if he owned the place. Before she realized it, Jo was making tea for them both, setting the cup before Mycroft and sitting down in the chair opposite him._ _

__“Thank you, Jo. I know my presence here is… unwelcome, but I feel there are a few things you need to be aware of,” Mycroft began, taking a sip of his tea with a look of vague annoyance on his face. Jo frowned. Mycroft and Sherlock didn’t look much alike, but there was enough of a familial resemblance that looking at Mycroft hurt._ _

__“Damn right it’s unwelcome,” Jo muttered, looking away from Mycroft to instead stare at her mug of tea. Mycroft ignored Jo’s statement in a typical Holmesian fashion; carrying on as if she hadn’t spoken._ _

__“Why did you even let him in?” And there was Sherlock, butting in per usual. Frankly, Jo was shocked it had taken her delusion this long to enter into the scene._ _

__“In a few hours, someone will knock on your door. You must not answer, under any circumstances. Your life depends upon this, Jo,” Mycroft insisted. He then set the cup aside, stood up and vacated the house as quickly as he’d come, leaving Jo sitting alone in confusion._ _

__*_ _

__The whole morning, Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet. She didn’t comment on anything, not even when Jo turned on crap telly in an attempt to get her to talk. It did occur to Jo that this was quite possibly a good thing; a sign of healing that Sherlock’s voice in her head had gone silent, and yet she was unable to stop trying to provoke her._ _

__At about noon Jo sighed and started to prepare lunch. She hated days like this, when she didn’t have to go to the surgery and so didn’t have to do anything but knock around her house. Curiosity over Mycroft’s visit had broken up the dullness, but only temporarily. Now Jo was back into the monochromatic world that was her day-to-day life._ _

__After three attempts at putting together a sandwich –each time she did something wrong, rendering the food inedible- Jo gave up on lunch in favor of a shower. She stripped off the dressing gown and Sherlock’s shirt, pausing in just her sweatpants to turn the shower on to let the water heat up. Once the water was warm, she slid out of the bottoms and her pants, stepping under the spray with a small gasp of surprise at the sudden heat. The water was a little to harsh on her scar for her to be completely comfortable, but the stab of pain kept her firmly in the now and kept her from slipping off into her own mind._ _

__For the longest time she hadn’t understood what Sherlock meant when the detective claimed to get lost in her own head. How could you be lost if you knew where you were? Now she understood that sometimes it was easier to let reality slide away and instead chase down your own thoughts and memories, putting yourself in them as if it were your first time experiencing them.  
Too many times she’d gone for a shower and emerged expecting to be in 221B, with Sherlock blowing something up in the kitchen. So now, she kept the water just this side of scalding, kept the water pressure hard on her shoulder, and made certain to focus on the present, not the past._ _

__This time she kept to her goal, and remembered exactly where and when she was upon getting out. The steam was heavy, not in a relaxing way but in a way that made Jo’s chest ache with heaviness. Rather than get dressed for the day, Jo opted to ignore any pretense of responsibility and pulled on what she’d worn prior to bathing. A little counterproductive perhaps, but Jo didn’t care._ _

__When she left the bathroom, she made sure to pull the curtains shut, wrapping the house in muted darkness. The telly was still on, playing gently in the background as Jo curled up on the couch. She wrapped herself in a quilt, something Mrs. Hudson had sent to her last Christmas, and burrowed down into it, attempting to reclaim the sleep Mycroft had interrupted. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt a bone-deep exhaustion that nothing seemed to shake. No matter how much rest she got, how much caffeine she consumed, Jo’s body still moved sluggishly, robotically._ _

__Jo abandoned the attempts at sleep, and instead made herself a cup of tea. She took a seat again, wrapped up in the quilt once more and sipped gently at the liquid._ _

__The exhaustion was so deep it took her a while for the knocking at her door to register. Part of her mind remembered Mycroft’s warning, but frankly, Jo didn’t care all that much about her life anymore. Not enough to actively seek out death, but enough to not care what happened to her._ _

__She trudged towards the door, calling out half-heartedly to inquire who was there. An unfamiliar voice responded incoherently, whatever their answer had been was muffled enough by the door to be rendered incomprehensible._ _

__Jo swung open the door. “Look, whatever you’re selling I’m not-”_ _

__The teacup fell to the ground and shattered._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think things would be getting better, but they won't. They're only going to get worse. Consider yourself warned.


	6. Making Friends With Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jo is officially out of her mind.

Jo backed away from the door. That was why Sherlock’s voice had been silent all day; her mind had been building up for this even grander delusion. Because it couldn’t be Sherlock standing in front of her, looking so alive, so nonchalant. It had to be her mind, finally cracking. 

So she did the only thing she could do. Pretended Sherlock wasn’t there. Jo retreated to the kitchen to retrieve her broom and dustpan, swept up the shattered remains of her teacup and used a towel to sop up the spilled tea. Sherlock was talking the entire time, trying to get her attention, but Jo ignored her voice as much as possible, until the sound was just music in the background as Jo went about her work. 

After the mess was cleaned up, Jo realized how uncomfortable she felt wearing just her pajamas, even if the only person who could see her was her own hallucination. She retreated to her room, Sherlock following after her. Jo stripped off her shirt, thinking for a moment how grateful she was that she’d slept in a bra before remembering that this Sherlock wasn’t real. Rather than get dressed one piece at a time, Jo opted to strip down to just her red bra and pants before pulling on jeans and turning to find a shirt from her wardrobe. 

Hallucination-Sherlock sat on the edge of Jo’s bed, perched on the tangled sheets and duvet, as Jo bent over and rifled through her hanging clothes to find a jumper. When she turned back around, jumper in hand, Sherlock was staring at her with mouth agape. 

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Jo commented, pulling the jumper on. Sherlock blinked a few times before speaking.

“On the contrary, you were always excessively body shy for an army doctor,” Sherlock commented. Her voice threw Jo for a moment; it was rougher and lower than usual, and Jo wasn’t sure why. If it was her mind coming up with it, shouldn’t the hallucinations at least be consistent? 

Jo’s hand hovered for a moment towards Sherlock, but then she dropped it. If she could feel Sherlock, it would be a sign of even worse madness than she’d expected. If she didn’t… well, it would break her either way. 

“Aren’t you going to offer me tea?” Sherlock finally asked. Jo looked at her in surprise. 

“No, you wouldn’t drink it,” Jo answered, stepping to the living room. Sherlock gave an inclination of her head to acknowledge that –how strange it was, to no longer simply hear her voice, but to see her actions. Even though logically Jo knew this wasn’t really Sherlock, she couldn’t help but appreciate the little facts her brain was incorporating into her delusion. Everything about the detective was spot on. Her mind even filled the woman out a bit to make Jo feel better about Sherlock’s eating habits. 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demanded. Jo had pulled on her coat and grabbed her cane. “And why on earth are you still using that thing?” 

Jo shook her head slightly; it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had berated her use of the crutch, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Ignoring her fantasy, she left the cottage, Sherlock trailing behind her.

“Jo, why are you going towards the cliffs? Jo? Jo, listen to me!” Sherlock grabbed her arm.

Hang on.

 _Sherlock_ grabbed her arm.

Sherlock _grabbed_ her arm.

Sherlock _Jo’s bloody hallucination_ grabbed her arm, and she _pulled_.

Jo flew back, caught off balance. Sherlock quickly righted her, and kept an arm on Jo’s shoulder even once Jo was standing straight. 

“You… you touched me,” Jo stammered, eyes wide in shock as things fell into place. There were two options; Jo was mad, very likely, or Sherlock was alive, highly unlikely. 

“Well, yes, Jo, friends do that sort of thing when another friend is falling.” Now Sherlock sounded exasperated, annoyed, and all those other words that seemed so Sherlockian in nature. 

The doctor didn’t know how to respond. Jo didn’t _think_ she was mad, but then, ninety-four percent of psychotics think they're perfectly sane. Sherlock gave a put-upon sigh.

“Please, spare me the theatrics. I’m perfectly all right, and so are you. If you would just take me back to your home, and make some tea, we can discuss things,” Sherlock pushed, tugging Jo after her down the path to the cottage. Jo followed her in a daze; so _this_ was what Mycroft had been warning her against. 

That still didn’t answer where Sherlock had been for three years. Or why she’d pretended to be dead. Or really anything at all. 

And yet Jo found herself calmly preparing _two_ cups of tea while Sherlock sprawled out across her couch, looking for all the world as if she’d always been there. When Jo sat down on the small space Sherlock left free, the detective immediately sat up to give Jo more room. Strange. 

Jo handed over a cup of tea and took a drink of her own. Too sweet. “Trade,” Jo said, trading cups with Sherlock. She tried this one. Perfect. Sherlock gave a small smile, which Jo returned with a scowl. 

“Care to tell me where you’ve been for three years?” Jo asked, her voice smooth to disguise how angry she was. It wasn’t a particularly good disguise, Sherlock saw through it in a minute. 

“I know you’re furious, you’ve got a right to be. Blame Mycroft, not me. This was all his bright idea,” Sherlock said, her tone embittered. Jo’s frown etched even deeper into her face, demanding further explanation. Sherlock sighed, falling backwards onto the couch in abandon as she launched into a description. “I spent a year and a half in rehabilitation. Much of that time I refused to eat or speak. Once I was allowed free from that, Mycroft made it a condition of my release that I ‘serve my country’.” Here Sherlock’s voice became mocking. “At that point, it was still very much a possibility that this servitude would end in my death. It was a necessity that people believe my death wholeheartedly. Therefore, the charade continued. And now, finally, I am able to return.”

Jo set her tea down and fell back in shock. Sherlock was alive, and everything was fine. Everything was fine, and Sherlock was alive.

 _Sherlock was alive_. 

Really, what else mattered?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot else matters, Jo. A lot.  
> By the way, bonus points if you can find the Supernatural reference.


	7. How I Used to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock observes the changes in Jo.

While Jo sat quietly absorbing the new information, Sherlock’s eyes were darting about the cottage, taking in everything. It was dark, much darker than Jo had kept 221B, but Sherlock could still see enough to keep her occupied while Jo thought. The quilt spread over the back of the couch was clearly a gift, it looked precisely like one Mrs. Hudson had given Sherlock a few years ago. 

What little of the cupboards Sherlock could see –Jo had left one open when she was making tea- was worryingly empty. Usually Jo kept her tea alongside biscuits and crackers, yet the shelves were completely bare excluding one lone box of tea. 

Jo herself was a sight. Sherlock would have to have a word with Mycroft over the exact definitions of the word ‘updated’; she thought she’d been clear enough during her travels that she wanted to be kept updated on Jo, but clearly Mycroft had left out everything important. Jo looked like she hadn’t slept a wink in weeks, and obviously her mental state had deteriorated if her reaction to Sherlock’s presence was any indicator. 

That alone was troubling. Jo’s reaction implied that she’d been experiencing hallucinations; most likely auditory as when Sherlock had spoken Jo didn’t react, but when Jo caught sight of her she would jump. Sherlock frowned. Mycroft had only said that Jo was having difficulty adjusting to living alone, that she was mourning a friend, not that she was depressed and hallucinating. 

It was illogical –how could Mycroft know if Jo hadn’t said anything, and why would Jo say anything? She wasn’t one to ask for help- but Sherlock could feel anger boiling in her stomach towards her brother. He had been the one to delay her return, claiming that she hadn’t paid her debt to him yet. She’d finally managed to lose her handler somewhere about Bristol, and had quickly made her way to Joss Bay. It was only a matter of time before Mycroft’s cronies caught up with her, but it was worth it to see Jo.

Sherlock took a sip of her tea, and nearly smiled. She’d tried her hand at making tea while she was away, some sentimental urge made her desire it all the more during her absence, but she was truly terrible at it. This tea was perfect, exactly how Sherlock liked it. That made her a little too happy, that after all this time Jo still remembered precisely how Sherlock took her tea. 

And that brought Sherlock back to the matter at hand; her absence. Clearly Jo needed more information than the scant explanation Sherlock had offered, she was just taking time to realize it. Sherlock, while impatient at the rate, could understand. After all, she was adjusting to the idea that the flatmate she thought was dead was in fact alive and had been all along. Still…

Sherlock’s foot began to tap, snapping Jo out of her reverie. The doctor took a breath, her hand shaking slightly as she reached for and drank from her cup of tea. Something in Sherlock ached when she saw the haunted look in Jo’s eyes, a part of her yearned to reach out and cradle the doctor’s face, but she squelched the emotion, telling herself it wasn’t what Jo needed or wanted. Once again, that thought. 

_I can never keep her._

And then a moment later.

_She was never mine to begin with._

“So when Mycroft told me not to answer my door today…” Jo said contemplatively. Sherlock perked up, curiosity piqued by her brother’s interference. He shouldn’t have been made aware of Sherlock’s escape until perhaps a half hour before Sherlock arrived at Joss Bay. Certainly not enough time for him to get there from his London home to warn Jo. 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, and she noted how Jo’s eyes seemed to light up when she spoke. 

“Yeah, he dropped by out of the blue this morning. Woke me up on my day off and all, just to tell me not to open my door this afternoon. Something about my life depending on it,” Jo said. Sherlock felt the inklings of a theory forming in her mind. 

“What time was this?” Sherlock asked sharply, rising from her seat to pace about the living room. Jo’s eyes followed her as if they couldn’t move away, and Sherlock relished in the feeling of having her in the room once more. 

“Perhaps ten?” Jo’s brow furrowed in the way it did when she was struggling to recall something accurately. “No, half past. Half past ten.”

Sherlock tried to hide her surprise; in the days of 221B she’d never known the doctor to sleep past seven unless she’d kept Jo up the night before, chasing down suspects, and even then she was awake and moving around by nine. Jo’s cheeks colored slightly, as if she felt Sherlock’s surprise and was embarrassed. 

But Mycroft shouldn’t have been able to warn her at half past ten. Sherlock hadn’t broken away from her handler until quarter past noon. Therefore, Mycroft wasn’t warning Jo against Sherlock. Good, that hadn’t made sense in the first place, why would Mycroft really give a damn that Sherlock had slipped away to visit Jo. Sherlock had nearly finished her service, and certainly was done with the life-threatening parts.

Only possible conclusion. Something else was coming, something that merited a personal visit from the British government. Something dangerous then. Some _one_ dangerous. 

A knock sounded at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic just keeps going and going... it's like the Energizer Bunny! Anyways, maybe two chapters tonight in celebration of the anniversary of the day John Watson and Sherlock Holmes met (according to John's blog).


	8. There Must Be Something Wrong With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door, and many questions, are answered.

Jo stood to answer the door, but stopped when Sherlock held out a hand. 

“Get your gun,” Sherlock whispered, her eyes fixed on the door. She didn’t seem afraid; rather, her face seemed focused with a peculiar intensity Jo had never seen before. It wasn’t like the manic obsession of a case, nor was it like the strangely calm interest of an experiment. This expression was altogether new. 

“Jo. Gun.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp, and sent Jo quickly to her room to retrieve her pistol, silently thanking any god listening that she’d kept it maintained and loaded. 

When she returned to the sitting room, Sherlock waved her into position so that she was out of the immediate line of sight of the doorway, but could still easily shoot anyone on the other side of the door. Sherlock crept up to the door, glanced towards Jo, who gave a sharp nod, and pulled the door open, prepared to dive out of the way should Jo shoot. Both women visibly relaxed when they saw who stood on the other side.

“Didn’t Mycroft tell you not to open the door?” Greg muttered, stepping inside and slamming the door shut behind him. “Nice to see you alive,” he added acerbically to Sherlock, who gave Jo a put upon look that Jo ignored. The inspector turned to face Jo, who lowered her weapon carefully, clicking the safety into place before shoving it into her waistband. 

“Not that it’s not _wonderful_ to see you Greg, but what the hell are you doing here?” Jo demanded. Greg hadn’t visited her in ages, not after the first months of living in Joss Bay. 

Greg shoved his hands in his pocket, rocking on his heels slightly before speaking. “Johanna, how much has Sherlock told you?” he asked, giving the detective a worried look before turning back to face Jo.

“Not much, really. Just said she was running errands for Mycroft.” Jo shrugged. She assumed that Sherlock would have told her more had Greg not shown up and interrupted them. 

The detective inspector laughed, even as Sherlock glared on. “Oh, she did a bit more than that, Johanna. You’re looking at a woman wanted in several countries for mur-” Sherlock cut Greg off.

“ _I_ will tell the story if you insist on it being told, Lestrade,” Sherlock hissed, dragging Jo back to the couch and sitting her down. As Greg took a seat in one of the chairs, Sherlock began to pace up and down the room. 

“Mycroft first used me to track down a man they’ve long suspected of running an international smuggling operation. When I proved that was too menial a task –it took me all of a week- he gave me more… questionable jobs.”

Jo narrowed her eyes in confusion. Questionable could mean anything in Sherlock’s book. Greg clarified.

“She means she was contracted to kill,” he said bluntly. Sherlock’s eyes flashed at him dangerously, but he simply blinked at her, utterly unfazed. Jo looked at Sherlock, awaiting her denial or confirmation of the statement. A moment later, the dark curls bounced in a small nod. 

“That still doesn’t explain why I can’t open my door,” Jo pointed out. She didn’t care that Sherlock had killed people, hell, Jo had killed people for the same reason; the government told her to. She understood, even if there was a difference between a soldier and an assassin. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock said, using her I’ve-just-realized-something-clever voice. Jo never thought she’d be so pleased by that voice, but having Sherlock back and deducing again… it was more than Jo could have hoped for. And so, so much better than her hallucinations. 

“Well, out with it, you’ve clearly got the answer,” Greg prodded, noticeably impatient with the detective’s shenanigans. 

Sherlock flashed a grin, but then her face went serious once more. “Simple. I’ve obviously missed someone, someone who should not have been missed.” At this, Greg gave another dark laugh. 

“You mean deliberately skipped someone,” Greg said. When Jo looked to him for an elaboration, he carried on. “Our dear detective skipped the last man on her list so that she could come see you.” Once again, Sherlock nodded the validity of his words.

Jo scowled towards Sherlock, who was now seated on the other side of the couch, fingers poised beneath her chin as she thought. 

“Sherlock,” Jo said in a warning voice. “Who was the last man on your list?” Already she thought she knew, she could feel the name nagging at her mind.

Sherlock mumbled a name. 

“Didn’t quite hear that,” Greg insisted.

The detective gave him a sharp stare. “Jim Moriarty.”

“Jim- you can’t mean Jim as in your ex-boss Jim. Not Jim as in half-killed me and terrified you Jim. Because surely, _surely_ , you’d have killed him before running off,” Jo said forcefully. Sherlock only shook her head.

“I’ll admit, not one of my best decisions, however, at the time it seemed like-”

“I swear if you say _the right thing_ I _will_ be forced to punch you,” Jo ground out from between clenched teeth. Greg shifted uncomfortably in his seat while they argued.

He stood suddenly. “Uh- which door is the loo?”

Jo glanced up sharply from glaring at Sherlock. “First door on the left,” she instructed. The moment Greg turned she started in on Sherlock on again.

“Because, really, I thought you hated him. You certainly _seemed_ to hate him. But then again, I thought you cared about me, and we can see how well _that_ turned out,” Jo spat. Sherlock looked up suddenly.

“Now we reach the crux of it, Jo,” Sherlock said, with an air of revealing a great secret. “You aren’t angry about me endangering you, that’s never bothered you before. You’re angry I left you!” She sat back, self-satisfied.

That made Jo even angrier. “Of _course_ I’m angry you left me! Dammit, Sherlock, you don’t just sleep with your flatmate one night and the next day throw yourself off a cliff! That’s not how this _works_ ,” Jo shouted, not caring that Greg could certainly hear them through the walls. 

“I’m sorry, what is _this_?” Sherlock asked rhetorically. “Were you suffering under some sort of misapprehension that we were going to have a relationship? Really, Jo, I thought you knew me better than that.” Her voice was cold now, emotionless, each word an ice dagger driving into Jo’s heart. “You were a way to blow off some adrenaline, nothing more.”

Jo refused to allow her lip to tremble the way it wanted to. Instead, she stared daggers at Sherlock for a moment before turning on her heel and retreating to her room, not giving a damn what the madwoman said. 

As she closed her bedroom door, she heard another knock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Greg, he leaves to pee and the whole thing goes to hell in a hand basket. 
> 
> Also, I swear, Sherlock has a reason for being such a dick right now. I promise.


	9. You're Gonna Think of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to answer the door and face your fears.

“Under no circumstances are you to open that door!” Lestrade ordered, stepping out of the loo. “And by the way, there was no bloody reason to be so… cruel to Johanna.”

Sherlock obeyed the first directive and ignored the second, remaining in her lounging position on the couch. Lestrade, evidently, wasn’t going to let it go. 

“I mean it. She was a wreck when you left. The least you could do was act like you give a damn about her.” Lestrade scowled at her, but Sherlock just kept her face smooth, refusing to show her hand and reveal her emotions. “But then again, look at who I’m talking to. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do friends, and she most certainly doesn’t do relationships.”

This time Sherlock responded. In a flash she was upright and standing before Lestrade. She was slight, yet she still filled the space with her irritation. “Don’t you _dare_ imply that I do not care for her. She was the center of my thoughts while I was away. It is simply best for her if she believes I do not care for her.”

Lestrade blinked nervously, watching as Sherlock bristled and then smoothed herself out, settling seamlessly into her collected appearance and walking back to knock on Johanna’s door. 

“Jo, I need you to come out here just for a moment. Bring your gun,” Sherlock said coolly. Lestrade could _hear_ Johanna rolling her eyes, yet a moment later the door was opened and one extremely put-upon doctor stepped out, gun held loosely at her side. 

When Sherlock moved to open the door, Lestrade made a disapproving noise. “Oh, what _now_?” Sherlock demanded. “What problem could you possibly have with this?”

Lestrade stepped forward, pushing Sherlock into the kitchen and down behind the counter. Then he waved Johanna over to him. “Shoot for the legs, ask questions later,” Lestrade instructed. Johanna nodded, preparing her gun for firing. 

He warily reached for the door, acutely aware that if he let Sherlock actually die, Mycroft would probably ensure his body was never found. He swung it open, leaping out of the way while Johanna fired off four shots in quick succession. A shout sounded in an unfamiliar voice, but he could see Johanna visibly recoil from the voice. 

Sherlock, at the sound of their voices, leapt quickly over the counter –why bother going around things when you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes?- and immediately was restraining one of the men outside. Johanna stepped forward and held the other one pinned to the ground. 

“Seb, lovely to see you again,” Johanna said sweetly, and frankly the sound of it was going to haunt Lestrade for weeks, along with the murderous light in the doctor’s eyes. “What were you planning on doing with that gun?”

The man –Seb- only growled up at Johanna. She looked over at Lestrade. “Greg, you might want to step out back to make sure nobody is sneaking up on us.” 

Lestrade knew what she was doing, but frankly couldn’t blame her. After all, the British government wanted both these men dead, so what did it really matter what way they went? He very kindly strolled out back, to look for potential threats of course, and if he happened to hear two gunshots go off in the time he was gone, well, perhaps someone was hunting in the area. No skin off his back. 

When Johanna called him back into the cottage, Mycroft was leaning dramatically against his umbrella as two men hauled some suspicious looking black bags into a van. 

Sherlock opened her mouth to explain, but Lestrade only shook his head. “Nope, don’t want to know. Plausible deniability, that’s my middle name,” he insisted. Sherlock gave a small smirk. 

“I was simply going to say Jo never lets me have any fun,” Sherlock replied smoothly. Johanna’s face quirked. 

“You had three years of ‘fun’, I figure it’s my turn,” Johanna argued. Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed, stepping over to Lestrade while Sherlock and Johanna began to bicker. 

“I suspect this will take a while, are you in need of a ride back to London?” Mycroft muttered underneath his sister’s arguments. 

Lestrade gave a nod; frankly he’d rather not wait around for a cab and then have to take the train. At least a government car promised to be comfortable. Perhaps he could even manage a nap on the way. 

Although with Mycroft in the car, it was entirely possible he’d wake up in a cell somewhere for having endangered the man’s baby sister.

You never quite know with the Holmeses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, I just wasn't feeling it for the longest time. So have some BAMF!Jo, and maybe a little bit of smut later on. But next chapter will have a lot of Jo feeling betrayed and Sherlock being obtuse.


	10. Stay Awhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally lets Jo in a little.

“Jo, listen to me,” Sherlock begged, trying to open the door. Jo had to be holding the knob, because it wasn’t twisting and there was no visible locking mechanism. “Jo! Just let me in,” Sherlock asked desperately. Silence from the other side of the door. 

“Jo.” Sherlock’s voice went soft and quietly hurt. “Please. Let me in.” 

The silence stretched for a moment as Sherlock leaned her forehead against the wood. She jumped back as the door suddenly opened. “Come on, then,” Jo said, waving her inside. 

Sherlock leapt into an explanation only seconds into the room. “I know you are angry with me because I left you, and I am sorry for any pain I caused, because truly it wasn’t my intention at all, I didn’t honestly believe it would affect you so.” The words tumbled out, and Sherlock was helpless to stop them, helpless to keep what she wanted inside. “I only jumped because I knew someday you would leave me, and I thought it better for the both of us if I was the one who left. That way you would not be plagued with guilt and I would not have to get hurt.”

Jo gave a bleak laugh. “Well, Sherlock, that was a bit of a failure in planning on your part,” she commented, sitting down on her bed. Sherlock remained standing, taking the room in. Things were stark and sterile, almost reminiscent of her own room in rehab. The only sign that it was Jo that lived in this room was the gun cleaning kit strewn across a desk, and the plethora of jumpers hanging in the closet. 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked absently, lost in observation. 

“I mean, I was still _plagued with guilt_ ,” Jo answered, as if the point was obvious. Sherlock snapped out of her reverie and blinked in confusion towards Jo. “Don’t look at me like that, Sherlock,” she said exhaustedly, “I thought- I thought it was my fault.”

Now Sherlock was genuinely surprised. She took a seat on the bed next to Jo, who was now looking distinctly pale and distraught. With a deep sense of awkwardness, she placed her hand on Jo’s knee in an attempt of comfort. 

“Johanna…” How to put this, in a way that wouldn’t end in pain for them both. Jo only shook her head. 

“I don’t- I don’t want to hear you tell me it wasn’t, Sherlock, because it’s the only thing that makes sense. Nothing else had changed, Sherlock. Just us,” Jo insisted. “Not even that, I guess, since there never really was an us.” 

That stung, made Sherlock slump her shoulders a bit. “Johanna…” she tried again. “I didn’t do it because of you- well, in a way, but it wasn’t anything that you could have changed.”

“Yes, Sherlock, very helpful. Definitely makes me feel better,” Jo interjected drily. 

Sherlock ignored her for the time being. “What I mean is that I did it out of fear. I was… afraid.” And that was all she wanted to say, so she was going to stop right there, but then Jo was looking over at her, still so sad and isolated-looking, that Sherlock simply couldn’t leave her like that. 

“I was afraid that you would leave.” It exploded out of her, before she could stop the words. Jo’s face softened, and she reached her hand out to gently brush back some of Sherlock’s hair, tucking it lightly behind one ear. 

“You were… afraid. That I would leave,” Jo repeated slowly, resting her hand on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock knew her pulse had picked up, could feel her heart trying to break free from her chest. 

Sherlock’s first instinct was to deny everything, but looking at Jo, she couldn’t deny anything. “Yes. Terrified,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Why did you think I was going to leave?” Jo asked, her thumb tracing absent circles across Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock ducked her head, reluctant to talk about it, but unable to keep anything from Jo if she asked. 

“Because everyone always does. Because I make them,” Sherlock said quietly. Jo gave a small smile.

“Sherlock. Even when I thought you were dead I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I am not leaving you,” Jo insisted, and there was no possible way Sherlock could ignore the honesty showing on Jo’s face. 

“All right,” Sherlock accepted, filing Jo’s words away for future examination, at a time when she wasn’t so… emotionally compromised. 

“I mean it, Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you,” Jo said, pulling her closer and kissing her softly. Sherlock melted against her, fingers knotting into the short blonde hair at the nape of her friend’s neck.

Jo broke the kiss smoothly, somehow making it seem not like a rejection but a continuation. She pressed gentle kisses across Sherlock’s cheeks, eyelids, and down along her jaw to mouth wetly at the sensitive spot behind one ear. Her mouth trailed down Sherlock’s neck to where it traced over the hollow of Sherlock’s throats. 

“How could you think I would leave you?” Jo whispered into the base of Sherlock’s neck. 

“I’m… too much. Too much for people,” here Sherlock broke to gasp as Jo nipped lightly at her earlobe. “For people to handle for- for very long.” Jo’s mouth was doing positively sinful things to Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s mind was short-circuiting. Her thoughts fell into a loop, of _JoJoJoJoJoJo_ peppered with the occasional _ohgodJo!_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I've been so crappy at updating, have two chapters in one day!

**Author's Note:**

> So I did not intend to write a sequel. I was going to leave it where it sat, let you guys extrapolate, but then my beta finished the final chapter. I was then informed that I _would_ in fact be writing a sequel in which I would "FIX IT NOW".
> 
> Brenna, I did warn you you wouldn't like how I fixed it.


End file.
